I'll Just Sit Here
by wordspank
Summary: From Frodo's eyes, it's bittersweet, but as long as Sam's happy, he's happy. (FrodoSam slash implied)


I'll Just Sit Here  
  
I'll just settle for PG-13.  
  
A/N: Not a virgin for writing, but definitely one for LOTR fics. Give me a chance, will ya? Dedicated to my best friend Amanda, who still hasn't got used to the fact that Frodo and Sam are soulmates, and they belong together. Written in Frodo's POV. If you think that the story is a bit disjointed, that's how it's meant to be, because it just shows how time really flies in ol' Frodo's eyes. Hope you like it.  
  
It's already been a year, but I still sit alone in my home with a quill in hand, penning down what I can recall from the War of the Ring. It's always been the same almost everyday, just sitting here, dipping and writing, dipping and writing, whilst the sun rises and sets without my notice.  
  
I say 'almost', because from time to time, my dear Samwise comes to serve me, or to tend to my beautiful garden outside. I receive visits from Merry and Pippin also, but they come to me only about twice a month, for they go about with their own businesses elsewhere. Bilbo is still in Rivendell.  
  
So now, I only have dearest Sam to spend precious time with.  
  
Today is one of those days that Sam comes, and I try to stop my anticipation from surfacing, even if noone is present at the moment to see it.  
  
And when he finally arrives, I simply do nothing, pretending to be taken by my thoughts, the quill held over the half-filled parchment until I feel his hand curl over my shoulder. I leave the quill in the ink bottle and greet him with a smile that's only meant for him.  
  
"Hello, Sam."  
  
He glances at the page I've spent a little bit of this morning writing, then smiles back at me, with a knowing gleam in his eye. "Mr Frodo, I reckon that you're hungry."  
  
"You're a bit late, Sam," I say.  
  
There is a hint of guilt that flashes across his face that says, 'I hope you didn't notice that'. "I'm sorry sir, I didn't mean it."  
  
"Don't let it trouble you," I reply, with a strange 'pfft'. He smiles at me in a way that makes me wonder if somewhere beyond those soulful brown eyes, he shares the same love that I feel for him. My heart pounds; I have never wanted anyone so much in my entire life. I nod, and he turns away to the direction of the kitchen.  
  
My nose suddenly twiches, detecting the heavenly smell of freshly baked bread that wafts through the entire place. I have to get up and eat now, to satiate my complaining belly.  
  
And when I sit down, I just watch him set out the white plates and cups and the filled teapot. My fingers lift its cover and I put my face near it, sniffing about, trying to identify the contents. "It's chamomile tea, sir. It's s'posed to soothe the minds of great gentlehobbits like you, sitting in your chair all day, writing a fine story."  
  
"Thank you, Sam." I pour myself some hot tea and sip comfortably. "Please, don't refrain from helping yourself," I offer. He thanks me and the day goes on peacefully, with me often admiring Sam's more-than-extraordinarily beautiful features, and more so that lies within him. When he tends to my garden, I bring my parchments and writing aides to my bedroom, just to be able to look at him from over the windowsill. Many times I sigh, because I often wished I was more an artist than a scholastic writer, so when the Sun captures his outline in a fine angle, I can paint and remember how wonderful he did look at that moment, a memory worth keeping all my life.  
  
But no picture can compare to my real, beautiful friend.  
  
I certainly wonder if I will, or can, tell him about all the pent up frustration and passion that lies inside of me, all the things I feel only for him. Perhaps I will.  
  
When evening washes over the sky in a faint, fiery orange and pink, Sam enters the Bagginses' Hole once again to let me know of his parting. But before I do just that, he and I sit in front of the hearth, and we discuss about the week that has passed us by. For a moment, there is just peace between us, while the fire crackles and leaps, and I feel that the thick hold in the air really is an opportunity to tell him how much I love him.  
  
Just when I heave the biggest breath of my dear life, he looks to me and speaks.  
  
"Mr Frodo, I love Rosie so much."  
  
At that particular time, I feel a brief faint-spell come over me. Sam sees my eyelids flutter and then his arms come around me to keep my head from striking the floor. "Frodo, Mr Frodo, me dear, are you alright?" he calls, and I place a palm on the ground to support myself, whilst I shrug out of his assuring hold.  
  
"I'm fine, I'm fine." My voice can't seem to keep the bitterness from seeping out coldly, but then I rethink my attitude and behaviour, and soften considerably. I suppose 'medear' is now just some kind of meaningless name he passes on to me. But as a friend, I want to hear what he has to say. "You were talking about Rosie."  
  
And I hold every wince and grimace back as he pours his heart out for her in front of my very eyes. At the end of it all, I hear my own overheated heart crack within my chest.  
  
He would love only Rose Cotton, the way I yearn for him to love me.  
  
So, as the days pass, I see Samwise in a slightly different light. He seems happier, as he courts Rose. He comes more often to tell me more about her, and what she loves, and what she does, and what her mannerisms are, so much that I do suppose I know her well more than she does herself. "Rosie this", "Rosie that"... I am more bothered than ever about the same old subject. But, I listen, because he is so very dear to me. I hold his every word in my heart. I've never seen him smile, the way he does now. And seeing that smile just makes me do the same. When Sam is happy, I can't help but be happy for him too.  
  
When the second year after the War of the Ring has passed, Sam and Rose marry, and I stand between Merry and Pippin, just watching the ceremony taking place, right up until the couple on raised ground kiss.  
  
My Sam is married.  
  
I realise that I haven't the chance, ever again, to tell him anything, and that I've lost to Rosie. Helplessly, I see him hold her as their foreheads touch and their eyes look everywhere. Sam is smiling after that, but this time I can't keep my own expression from falling. Pip catches the flowers, and Merry rubs my back, as if he knows of my feelings for my servant, my unrequited love. The only upside now is that both Merry and my Tookish cousin have decided to stay in the Shire, and they remain my only comforts.  
  
Rose and Sam soon occupy a Hole near to mine, after the original tenants had moved out on October the third. Sam has taken over his Gaffer's duties and I see him every single day. Would it have happened before my knowing of Sam's love for Rosie, I would be in silent overjoy, but now it seems to almost hold no meaning.  
  
I use 'almost', because his presence does make it matter somehow.  
  
After all, I still love him all this while.  
  
But now we hardly speak a word to each other, and I don't know why. Maybe it's because when I watch him, I often see him with Rose, giving her an embrace I would most love to have. And maybe because he kisses her so sweetly, like I would love him to do to me. And maybe because I have to SEE all of this, I have distanced myself from him, hoping that my feelings would soon wash away. So, like I have always done, all I do is sit in my chair, dipping and writing, dipping and writing, and watch him from afar, coveting him.  
  
Because I can't help but love him.  
  
But I can never take a huge risk as I have wanted, and jeapordize the precious friendship that we've built over the years. That fear will never vanish. As much as I would like to be rid with all the feelings inside, I won't tell him, and I don't care if it haunts me for the rest of my life (and a shorter one I pray to have), only because he's my very best friend.  
  
Perhaps that's the reason why I agreed to leave Middle-Earth.  
  
I haven't told anyone about that either, and I'm not going to.  
  
Sam, quite soon, has a little hobbit-lass, Elanor, and quite often, he brings her to my home. She loves to sit on my lap and touch my missing third finger. Despite her being Rose's, I feel as if she were my own, and I spoil her rotten for all Sam is worth to me. Losing Sam to Rose isn't so bad after all; I then earn myself a new friend, and I tell her everything.  
  
"Ellie," I ask her, "do you know how much I love your father?"  
  
She looks at me with his eyes, and her head turns about up and down, as if she fully understands every word I say.  
  
"Very much... More than he would ever love you or your mother, I daresay." I lean my chin on the top of her head. "One day, will you tell him that for me?"  
  
Her little hands wraps over three of my fingers and she doesn't let go.  
  
"Thank you. You're such an angel, you're sure to be a favourite with the lads when you're older." I give her a kiss. "Oh Sam," I sigh, "I wish I could have you."  
  
And with Elanor on my lap, we both look out the window to see the vision that always steals my breath away. I know there's nothing I can do, as I now leave little Ellie to grow up, and tell him about my love for him. It doesn't matter anymore.  
  
I'll just sit here in the meantime, and watch him while I can.  
  
I just wish I could paint. 


End file.
